


I'll Give It To You On Time (And I'll Ask Real Nicely)

by Trigonometrical



Series: let's freak it out and spread it around [1]
Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Finger Sucking, Hair Pulling, Humiliation, In Public, M/M, Name-Calling, Objectification, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Public Humiliation, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 21:37:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trigonometrical/pseuds/Trigonometrical
Summary: It’s . . . not the worst prep work Brian has ever done. The porgy looks edible, even if there’s a lot of meat still on the bones. But Brian had lost the plot a little bit with the meal prep. Mid-way through, Pat had complimented Brian’s filleting technique. It wasn't really praise, but. It had been so close to a,good boy, you’re doing so well, so perfect for me, that Brian had blinked, taken a pause to collect himself, and said, “Compared to what, Patrick? Compared to what?”Brian thinks he’s played it off well, but Pat catches Brian’s eye for an instant, and there’s a glint there that Brian doesnotlike at all, no sirree.And, hoo boy, is Brian in trouble then.





	I'll Give It To You On Time (And I'll Ask Real Nicely)

**Author's Note:**

> This is firmly daddy kink, folks. There’s absolutely no infantilism, incest, or lifestyle play, but the dirty talk between them and the roles they are inhabiting are definitely more intense than just saying “daddy” and “baby boy” during sex. This is mentioned in fic as an established thing that these two characters do sometimes, and it's incredibly, enthusiastically consensual on all counts. 
> 
> Read and heed the tags, and stay comfy out there if this is one of your limits!
> 
> Title from [“Daddy Like” by Dorian Electra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kk4BZ3uOSHI).

Brian realizes that he’s in deep shit when he checks his spreadsheet after the first course and does some simple math. They took way too much time on rice balls and curry rices. Sure, they’d also prepped some pumpkin and chicken and dough for later dishes, but not enough to offset everything else. It’s just been so easy to eat and joke with Adam, Pat, and Clayton like they’re having a big gay dinner party in their swanky upper west side loft. But reality crashes down when Brian notes that they have like 80 percent of the recipes left.

His left eye twitches while he watches the video on how to fillet a porgy for the second time. He mimes the actions of the video with his hands, tries to get the motion of it sunk deep into his bones, like he’s practicing a dance. He’d prefer to cross-reference it against several other videos and take copious notes, but he doesn’t have time—he grew up in Baltimore, sure, but that doesn’t mean he knows how to fillet a fish, he doesn’t—

“You okay?”

Pat’s as quiet as a damn cat when he wants to be, sneaking up behind Brian with his comically large camera. Brian startles, but settles his ruffled feathers and clicks play on the video for the third time.

“No, we’re so fucking behind,” Brian grumbles, staring off into the mid-distance. “Whose dick d’you think I’d have to suck to get us another two hours in here?”

Pat laughs and strokes Brian’s shoulder in a way that definitely looks like it’s between two coworkers and not between two people who have known each other in the biblical sense.

“Unfortunately, not mine,” Pat says—quiet, but no less devastating for it. “And I think custodial needs to get in here to set up for an event later, so probably nobody’s.”

Then Pat’s voice drops even further, until it’s a light rumble washing over Brian’s neck. “Though, I bet your wicked mouth could buy us a lot more than two hours.”

Brian inhales sharply, darts his eyes over to Adam fiddling with a container of something in the fridge, Clayton swapping out a lens on the other side of the room. “Patrick,” he says, his affect flat.

“Brian,” Pat echoes. He raises an eyebrow then flits away—as much as a goth thirty-something gamer can _flit_. A spring in his step like Dick Van Dyke in _Mary_ fuckin’ _Poppins_.

Brian closes the goddamn porgy video.

It’s . . . not the worst prep work he’s ever done. He’s sure there are childhood home videos of him absolutely wrecking the kitchen while making batches of Christmas cookies. But it’s certainly not _good_ prep work that he’s doing. The knife work is sloppy, but the “filet” looks edible, even if there’s a lot of meat still on the bones—certainly more than the guy in the video had left.

But mid-way through, Pat had complimented Brian’s technique, told him he’d done good work. It wasn’t, like, really praise, but on the heels of Pat’s previous comment the words had stuck in Brian’s stomach like oatmeal. His neck went hot. It had been so close to a, _good boy, you’re doing so well, so perfect for me,_ that Brian had lost the plot a little bit with the meal prep. He’d blinked, taken a pause to collect himself, and said, “Compared to what, Patrick? Compared to _what_?”

Brian thinks he’s played it off well—certainly Adam and Clayton seem none the wiser—but then there’s Pat. Pat’s tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth. He runs a hand through his hair and catches Brian’s eye for an instant, and there’s a glint there that Brian does _not_ like at all, no sirree.

And, hoo boy, is Brian in trouble then.

They don’t play around much like this in public, even in the relative privacy of the Eater kitchen. The internet is forever, after all, and they’ve already got that clip of Pat feeding Brian a hot dog while perched on his sweaty back. That stream was approximately when Brian stopped looking at his DMs on all social media platforms, when he’d glanced at comments and saw people had no-scoped that he got hard in his chinos the second that Pat had deadlifted him. But it’s still fun. To see what he and Pat can get away with. On stream, in a bar, during a skype call with Brian’s mom and Moose. Once Pat realizes that he can get under Brian’s skin and remain relatively undetected, he’s always off to the fucking races.

Adam takes one for the team and agrees to eat the glazed mushroom, which Brian knows he’ll have to make up for later. As Adam drizzles their too-fancy Trader Joe’s honey on the mushroom, Pat softly groans, _ohh yeah_ , and flutters his eyes when Brian makes the huge mistake of looking at him. It’s some weird combo of Brian’s pitch but Pat’s sex voice, and Brian’s body doesn’t know how to handle that content.

He coughs and averts his eyes, tells Adam something about the composition of the shot—or something, he doesn’t fucking know, jeez louise. But then Pat interrupts with a loud, _Mmmm_ , that causes Clayton to snort and bump his nose into the viewfinder. Brian sweeps his hair out of his face and definitely _doesn’t_ press his hips into the counter to hide that his dick is starting to fill.

But Pat catches that too, damn him. Normally, Brian is happy as a clam whenever he notices how attuned they are to each other. When they fluff their hair at the same time, want to leave a party at the same time, make the same joke in Smash at the same time. They’re simpatico. Now, he’s wondering what was his tell—the hips, the cough, the way his hands are shaking on the counter. Whichever it was, it apparently told Pat all he needed to know.

Pat continues to needle and comment and gasp and moan at truly the grossest dishes. It ramps up as the day goes on, Pat spurred into action by both Clayton and Adam laughing, as well as Brian _not_ laughing and _definitely not_ reacting. But it doesn’t seem like they’ve caught on to Pat’s very specific “torture Brian” game. Sure, Clayton’s probably overheard some shit between the two of them after Overboard filming, which he’s blessedly kept to himself. Adam hasn’t, though, and Brian would like to retain some semblance of professionalism rather than being known across all Vox publications as the manic, horny twink who’d rather suck Pat’s dick on stream than play another first-person shooter.

All of them are punch drunk and tired and full as Brian talks into Clayton’s camera about the process of making pie crusts. They look . . . bad. Not as bad as the steamed porgy, maybe, but not _great_ either. Brian thinks that’s going to be the tagline of the day.

Pat and Adam have been talking about _Monster Hunter_ while Clayton and Brian block the shot, so Brian’s lulled into a false sense of security as they move into the breakfast tasting course. He clears his throat to get the show on the road, as it’s already—he checks his watch—four p.m., Jesus.

“Let’s start first with—”

“With the most beautiful?” Adam cross-talks.

“—perhaps the most beautiful thing we’ve done,” Brian says. He’s proud of it, even though it’s literally eggs plus rice. He’s made this same dish hungover countless times, but still. It looks more-than-edible, which for him deserves at least one Michelin star.

Adam uses his best cooking show tactic to break the egg yolk with the tines of his fork. It’s satisfying as hell, and Brian’s halfway through another “hoo!” before Pat absolutely snipes him from across the room.

 _Ohhh, daddy_.

God, Brian wishes he was holding the bowl. He needs something to do with his hands. And he can’t grip the counter again because Clayton is filming up close and personal, and it would be immediately obvious what happened—the voice, Brian’s reaction. Brian can’t move from the fucking limp-wristed pose he realizes he’s been standing in for God knows how long.

He looks down, blinks several times. This is hell, absolute hell wrought by Pat Gill and his fucking _voice_ and his fucking—

_“Oh, daddy,” Pat had mocked, pulling out and then sliding in again. “Listen to yourself. So desperate for my cock. So relieved when you finally get it.”_

_“Yes, I n—"_

_"Need it? I know,” Pat had said. He’d readjusted his grip on Brian’s calves, hitched them higher over his shoulders. “You’re just a needy little thing who’d do anything for a dick inside him.”_

_Brian had gasped and writhed and earned himself a smack on his flank for the trouble._

_“Keep still, baby boy,” Pat had said. “Or it’s gonna be a long night.”_

—“We’re gonna have to throw this away ‘cause Pat said ‘Oh, daddy’ in an audible space,” Brian quips. He’s finally able to meet Pat’s eyes again. It’s charged for a flash, Pat’s gaze dark and unblinking and stupidly hot. He’s biting his lip like _Brian_ bites his lip, and raising his eyebrows as if to say, _you started this_. Then Pat fucking winks, and Brian’s jostled by Adam’s shoulder as he hands over the egg rice.

Brian takes a bite, then almost slams the bowl down, he’s so excited. “Mm! This is good!” And it’s real excitement, not put-on for good video or to throw Pat off his game. Brian’s delighted to eat something tasty after so, so much garbage.

But there’s no time to dwell on the good food, because there’s a lot of absolute dog shit left. Brian breathes a sigh in relief as they move quickly through the terrible soups and stews (though he has to chug a Red Bull off camera to get the terrible radish-milk-fruit taste out of his mouth). The ramped-up pace doesn’t give Pat the chance to mouth off again, other than a _fuu-uck_ that he’d whispered when Brian had turned on the immersion blender.

Brian busies himself washing one wok while Adam fries the crumbly hand pies in the other. He’s got his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, entire upper body bent into the sink to scrub some burnt dough off the bottom. They’d been able to use a little oil, sure, but not enough to keep the crepes from royally fucking up Eater’s expensive cookware.

He doesn’t hear Pat over the running water until Pat is nudged up right behind him, camera ostensibly pointed in the sink though Brian can tell it’s not even _on_. “Hmm?” Brian hums, aiming for nonchalance that he knows he isn’t pulling off. “What’s up?”

Pat adjusts how he’s holding the camera, makes kind of a production out of balancing it in the crook of his shoulder. Then he uses his newly-free right hand to reach between Brian’s legs from behind. Brian parts his legs without really thinking about it, otherwise frozen as Pat presses two fingers into the seam of Brian’s pants right behind his balls.

Brian chokes on his tongue as Pat draws his fingers up and back, drags them through the cleft of Brian’s ass. He clenches his muscles tight under Pat’s hands. The running water covers Brian’s whimpered little, “Patrick,” but Pat is close enough to hear it. Close enough that Brian can feel Pat’s smile against the back of his neck.

Then, as soon as he’d arrived, Pat is gone, asking Adam a question about the wide shots they’ll need for the cakes.

Brian goes back to scrubbing the wok. Vigorously.

Pat is maybe afraid of pushing his luck—either with Brian’s patience or their ability to remain undetected—after that. He keeps making big eyes at Brian around the side of his camera, alternating those with smoldering glances through his beautiful, wavy hair, the fuck. But other than that, Pat is a professional—who, okay, audibly laughs behind the camera way more than a Live Video Producer probably should, but he’s still good at his job and the laughing is part of that. It’s Brian’s job to make him laugh.

Finally, blessed finally, they finish filming for the day at 6:20 p.m. and not a moment sooner. It got dicey in more ways than one with the fruit cake, but now Brian doesn’t have to eat unseasoned food again until his aunt’s Thanksgiving green bean casserole.

Adam says something about letting Security know that they’re finished as he walks backward out the door, apron still on and everything. Brian gathers up the leftovers, writes sticky notes that say _Eat Me! :)_ on the tastier ones, and puts them in the fridge for whoever is filming next. And maybe no one will eat any of it, but then well. It’s not Brian’s problem anymore. He doesn’t need a dragonfruit, Zuko would probably eat it.

Clayton runs to grab the Polygon equipment cart that Simone had borrowed earlier and forgotten to return. Brian doesn’t realize they’re alone and what that might mean until Pat grabs Brian by the wrist as he’s double checking that he put away his microSD card. Brian tenses but then lets his arm go limp, lets Pat push Brian backward until he’s up against the wall, his leg brushing against the giant monstera plant by the window.

“Patrick,” Brian whispers harshly. “Y—”

Pat body checks Brian against the wall, shoves their chests together briefly before he backs up. “You keep saying my name,” Pat says, “but you haven’t told me to stop.” He pauses, looks toward the door for a long moment, then turns back to Brian. Rolls his head, his neck, lackadaisically. As though they have all the time in the world. Even though they _don’t, Pat Gill, what_ —

Pat presses his pointer finger against Brian’s bottom lip, but doesn’t push in when Brian opens his mouth. Instead, he slowly draws his finger along the crease, traces the bow of Brian’s upper lip, scratches his fingernail ever-so-gently underneath Brian’s bottom lip. It’s slow, and methodical, and it’s taking Brian apart.

“I don’t want you to stop,” Brian whispers.

Pat takes that as the cue that it is and shoves his pointer and middle fingers in Brian’s mouth, presses down against Brian’s tongue as he fucks them in and out a few times. Brian whimpers and tries to pulse his tongue against Pat’s fingers as best he can, but he’s not so much in control, here, which—well, that’s typically the way he likes it. All things considered.

Brian feels his knees start to buckle but Pat’s thigh is there to catch him, slotted between his legs at the perfect height and perfect angle because Pat is _perfect_ , fuck. He moans around Pat’s fingers, dips his tongue into the crease between them to lap at the soft skin. Pat stifles his own moan, at that, and as quickly as if nothing had happened, he pulls his fingers out of Brian’s mouth.

“Wh—”

“That’s all you get for now,” Pat says, using those slick fingers to tilt up Brian’s chin. He searches in Brian’s eyes, curious, but must find what he was looking for in Brian’s no-doubt hungry and open expression.

“Now what do we say, Brian, when we get what we want?”

Brian feels embarrassment pool in his lower back, radiate up up _up_ until it’s consuming him from the inside out. “Th- thank you, daddy.”

Pat smiles, wolf-like and dangerous. “You’re welcome, baby boy.”

Then he pulls back, taps Brian’s cheek twice with his fingers, turns on his heel, and walks away.

Brian’s halfway to hollering something snarky (hopefully) or desperate (probably) about how Pat keeps _leaving him hanging like a- like a fucking cockblock_ —

But then Clayton pops his head in and says _Cart’s here!_ and Adam saunters in like fifteen seconds later, and Brian has to make himself very busy with his phone charger in the corner so his coworkers can’t see that he has the most inappropriate work erection _ever_.

\---

Pat and Brian leave together and don’t even consider concocting a plausible reason _why_ to loudly mention in front of Adam and Clayton. Brian’s too far gone to worry about the optics of it. They bump shoulders as they walk, joke about washing down today’s meals with a street dog from the cart where the guy always calls Brian “Brenda.”

By unspoken agreement they’re heading to Brian’s apartment in Brooklyn. The last four times, they’ve gone to Pat’s apartment—Quinn is lovely, sure, and makes great zucchini bread that he’s always willing to share, but he’s also not _that_ forgiving. And Laura’s nannying an overnight, which is perfect, the best thing that’s ever happened to Brian (even if it’s not for Laura). Only Jonah should be home, and half the time, if they aren’t having pre-scheduled roommate hangs, then Jonah has his headphones on in his room working on music. It’s as close to private as one can get in New York City, the city that never sleeps and never insulates apartment walls.

Once Brian gets the door open, Pat strides in like he owns the place, only pausing for a moment to whisper, _hi, handsome man_ , to Zuko sleeping on the back of the couch. Pat pushes into Brian’s bedroom as Brian drops a kiss on Zuko’s soft forehead. He puts an extra scoop of dry food in Zuko’s bowl so he won’t meow at Brian’s soon-to-be-closed bedroom door, then confirms that Jonah is, indeed, in his room with his headphones on and the door shut. Lovely, predictable Jonah, who deserves at least a dozen cookies by now for dealing with Brian, his horny best friend who shares a wall with him.

But Brian can’t think about trying to make his mom’s snickerdoodles in his tiny New York kitchen right now, not when Pat is being cryptic and quiet in Brian’s bedroom. Brian slips into the partially-open door, shuts it behind himself with a promising _snckk_.

Pat is sitting on the bed when Brian turns around, his back straight, feet planted on the floor, eyes dark and intense as per usual.

Brian unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt. “Can I get you any libations?” he asks in an affected mid-Atlantic accent. “Some canapés?”

“Come sit on daddy’s lap,” Pat says. He doesn’t acknowledge that Brian even said anything.

Oh, okay—so they’re _actually_ doing the damn thing tonight.

Brian closes his eyes and bounces a bit on his toes. They don’t play this way that often, other than light teasing at bars and apparently also at the workplace. And they’d just slipped into these roles a few days ago, after Pat had needed to let off some steam, and Brian had been giddy and willing to let Pat take it out on his body. But Pat’s in a much different mood, today. Sweet with a kick, like salted caramel.

Brian could easily say no, and they’d switch gears and probably jerk each other off real quick before falling asleep with _I Think You Should Leave Now_ playing on Brian’s laptop. But Pat’s mood is infectious. And, truth be told, Brian is always in the mood for Pat.

Brian climbs into Pat’s lap, settles his knees on either side of Pat’s hips. “Hel- _lo_ Papi,” Brian says, tongue poking through his teeth in a wide grin.

Pat rolls his eyes. “And here I was going to apologize for teasing you all day.”

“Mm, don’t apologize,” Brian says with a sigh. He kisses Pat’s cheek, leans in far enough to flutter his eyelashes against the soft skin. “Liked it.”

“I know you did, sweet thing,” Pat says. He shifts one arm around so it’s supporting Brian’s back, which gives him the leverage to press his other palm against Brian’s crotch.

Brian gasps wetly against Pat’s cheek. He’s already shivering.

“I could see how much you liked it,” Pat says, moving his palm in the slowest circles imaginable. “But I was still being very mean.”

Brian nods, gasps when Pat presses in harder. “Mmhmm. I just wanted to do food crimes.”

Pat chuckles, just one punched-out breath. “You did plenty. We got a ton of footage,” he says. “It’s gonna be an amazing video, baby boy.”

Brian smiles, ducks his head. It was a hellish day—and editing the video next week will be even more hellish, _oof_ —but Brian can feel in his bones that this video’s going to be good. He hasn’t felt this jazzed about an Unraveled since the Pokérap. He hums, content. “Thanks, daddy.”

“Such good manners,” Pat croons, tracing his pointer finger along the length of Brian’s dick through his pants. Brian almost doubles over from how sharp and quick that goes straight to his gut. His dick twitches, and he knows Pat can feel it because Pat smirks against Brian’s lips as he crowds in for a kiss.

One kiss turns into two, then three—then a series of lush, perfect kisses with Pat plying Brian’s mouth open, taking his time with him, bringing their lips and tongues and teeth together in a way that makes heat bubble up, slow and warm, in the pit of Brian’s stomach. Pat takes his time in most everything he does, and it’s never more evident than it is here, Pat using every ounce of control he has to slowly make Brian melt. It’s the most thorough and slow kissing that Brian has ever felt, and it’s somehow _the most_ every single time Pat does this.

But after several minutes of plush kisses, Brian can’t stop his hips from rolling—gently against Pat’s hand, at first, then harder when Pat doesn’t push him away. Brian flicks the tip of his tongue along Pat’s bottom lip then pulls it into his mouth with his teeth.

Pat hisses and grabs Brian’s wrist in the hand that had been on Brian’s cock, shoves _Brian’s_ hand to the front of _Pat’s_ pants, where he’s already so fucking hard, Jesus. Brian cups the length of him through the fabric, feels him pulsing under his fingers.

“Good boy,” Pat rumbles. Then he nips Brian’s bottom lip and nudges their noses together, says, “Touch me.”

Brian unzips Pat’s fly, fishes out his dick with delicate and hesitant fingers. The hesitancy disappears pretty quickly though—as soon as Brian wraps his hand around Pat’s cock, he’s stroking exactly how Pat likes, twisting on the upstroke to wring beautiful sounds out of his throat. Pat has his eyes closed, mouth slightly parted. He’s a gosh dang work of art, is what he is.

Some precome dribbles onto Brian’s fingers and he doesn’t even consciously complete the thought before he brings his fingers to his mouth for a taste. Brian only thinks to make it _hot_ at the last second, flicks out his tongue obscenely over his fingertips.

Pat opens his eyes and tracks the movement, unblinking. He stands suddenly, supporting Brian’s weight but also helping him sink to his knees on the floor, oh _fuck_ yes. “You need something in your mouth, sweetheart?”

“Yes, want—fuck my mouth.” Brian starts working Pat’s belt through the loops, but Pat puts a hand on his wrist to halt him.

“Ask nicely.”

Brian shudders. “Please, daddy, w- wanna blow you.”

“Good boy,” Pat says, and Brian shudders again.

Pat gets his pants down to his thighs and Brian’s on him in a flash, moaning the second he gets Pat’s dick in his mouth like he’s been starving for it. Only forty-eight hours, at most, have passed since he’s last done this—but gosh, he’s missed the weight of Pat in his mouth, the soft hairs of Pat’s thighs.

“That’s it, baby,” Pat murmurs. “Suck me nice and slow. So sweet for me.”

Brian whimpers and tries to take Pat deep into his throat, but Pat holds his head in place, steady. Brian can’t move, can’t take Pat deeper, can’t do anything but suckle the head of Pat’s cock. His ears are ringing with the goodness of it all, his eyes fluttering when Pat’s fingers spasm on his jaw.

Pat slides one hand up into Brian’s hair, grips, and pulls hard. Brian gasps as Pat’s dick slips out of his mouth.

“Keep your mouth open,” Pat says. “Wanna see that pink tongue.”

Brian sticks out his tongue, doesn’t even have to pretend to be a wanton, slutty mess—he’s there, baybee. Pat slowly rubs the head of his cock over Brian’s tongue, dips into his mouth and shallowly fucks into him. Brian can taste salt blooming on his tongue and he shifts his weight from one knee to the other, tries to beg a little harder with his eyes.

Pat strokes his hair, practically petting him, and Brian’s so blissed out that he doesn’t realize that Pat says something until Pat taps at Brian’s jaw for him to close his mouth. And he does, goes back to sucking Pat’s dick in earnest. He tries to take more, fucking gag on his cock already, but Pat tightens his grip in Brian’s hair and Brian is held fast. But he keeps trying, strains forward to swallow Pat all the way, causing bright-good pain at the base of his scalp each time.

“Easy,” Pat chides. He clucks his tongue. “You’re so worked up already.”

Brian keens around Pat’s cock as Pat presses the ball of his foot over the bulge in Brian’s pants— _shit_ , he forgot he was still fully dressed. Brian is helpless to buck into the pressure. It feels so good to have something to rub against, but it’s not nearly enough. Brian stutters his hips looking for friction, but Pat stays out of reach.

“Just a little slut, so hungry for his daddy’s cock, hmm?”

Brian whines and pulls his head back. “Please.”

Pat hums. “ _Please_ what?”

“Fuck me,” Brian says, ragged and thready. He runs his hands up Pat’s thighs, clenches the material of his pants under his fingers.

Pat increases the pressure of his foot against Brian’s cock—and it’s good, so good, until it _hurts_ a little, Brian trapped there on the floor, writhing against the only bit of Pat’s body that he can get to, the only bit that Pat allows. “That’s awfully vague,” Pat says. “ _How_ do you want me to fuck you.”

“Geez, Pat, I—ngh.”

Pat _tsks_ and presses harder, moves his foot back and forth. Brian can feel his eyes roll back in his head. “C’mon, sweetheart. Tell daddy what you need.”

“Please, daddy. Could, I- I mean, w—”

“Hmm.” Pat removes the pressure of his foot and Brian bends forward like he’s been electrocuted, gasping and panting. “If you can’t even tell me what you need,” Pat says nonchalantly, “maybe we should go to sleep. You did have an awfully long day.”

“No!”

Pat twists his hand in Brian’s hair and _pulls_ , _fuck_. “Then, okay, use your words. Let me hear you.”

“Need your cock so bad,” Brian pants out, hard and fast in one breath, and Pat releases the tension at the base of Brian’s scalp. Shame licks down Brian’s back at how desperate his voice sounded, even to his own ears. It shouldn’t feel this good to be stripped to his basest parts, but good lord it does and he loves it. He kneads his hands helplessly on Pat’s thighs. “In my mouth, in my ass— _fuck_ you make me feel so much, I—daddy, please, wanna _feel_ you.”

Pat feeds his cock into Brian’s mouth, gets deep enough on that first thrust that Brian has to swallow around him and choke, a little, to get used to it. Pat uses his grip on Brian’s scalp to get his throat at exactly the right angle, and then Pat really fucking goes for it, snaps his hips and slides down Brian’s throat. Brian has to concentrate to not choke, but it’s so good, tears streaming down his face, held tight between the hand in his hair and Pat’s other hand gripping around his neck. He realizes, sex-drunk belatedly, that Pat is feeling his cock through Brian’s throat, stroking each time he stills.

Brian writhes as much as he can in his current position, stuck fast on Pat’s cock but also not trying to get away from that. He can feel drool leaking out of his mouth, and then even more tears, and probably some clear snot if he really thinks about it. He’s a fucking mess and he feels _transcendent_ , sucking in deep breaths when Pat pulls back. Brian unbuttons his pants and shoves them down unceremoniously, gets a hand around himself—he knows he’s not allowed to come until Pat says, but it’s almost better this way, working himself up, denying his urge to fall over that edge until Pat tells him he can.

Pat drags his cock out of Brian’s mouth and rubs the head around his lips, painting Brian with precome and his own saliva. Brian closes his eyes—he can feel himself shivering, good lord—so he squeaks in surprise when Pat grips his chin and pulls upward with a hint of suggestion, until Brian gets his feet under himself and pushes into a standing position.

“You’re too good at that, sweet thing,” Pat says. Brian opens his eyes automatically. Pat’s pupils are so large, his chest heaving, his fingers shaking where they’re still holding Brian’s chin.

A flush spreads from Brian’s neck to his fingers and toes. He wiggles them, feeling the heat of it, the way he’s burning from the inside out for this skinny-ass communist weirdo who completely owns Brian’s ass and likes to remind him of it in the best, funnest ways possible.

“Thank you,” Brian says. Crisp. Soft. Polite.

Pat’s eyelids flutter and he mumbles a soft _shit_ under his breath. “ _So_ good for me, baby. But I don’t want to come until I’m inside you.”

Brian wiggles. “Ooh, please fuck me now, then,” he says, his voice scratchy. He maybe loses his character a bit as he wriggles out of Pat’s hold, takes off his pants, and flops backward on the bed with a grin and an _oof_. But can Pat blame him? He’s sex-drunk and barely been touched—his favorite place to be.

“Eager,” Pat says, fond, his smile crinkling his eyes. He follows Brian onto the bed.

“That’s me,” Brian chirps, sing-song, “your eager little cock slut.”

A sharp _crack_ followed by bright pain in his cheek—Pat _slapped_ him. Across the _face_. Brian gasps. It wasn’t particularly hard, and Pat’s smile doesn’t drop for a second, but it’s shocking. A reminder. It makes Brian’s dick twitch.

“Don’t be sassy,” Pat says. He shimmies up the bed to grab the lube from Brian’s bedside table.

“That’s my secret, Pat Gill,” Brian says, working off his clothes the rest of the way, wiping his messy face with the bottom of his shirt. “ ‘m always sassy.”

“Don’t I know it,” Pat grumbles good-naturedly.

Brian splays himself out on the sheets, lookin’ like a snacc if he does say so himself. He’s no himbo, but he knows he looks good like this, flushed and rumpled and left wanting.

Pat is helpless to resist him, quirks a smile and then hovers over Brian to place a line of small kisses across his collarbone. He sits back on his haunches. “How do- do you want to be?” Pat asks, uncapping the lube.

“Mm, on my belly,” Brian decides. “Want you so deep I can feel you in my fucking throat.”

“ _Jesus Christ_.”

“Just Brian,” he chirps again. And he knows it’s coming, but the second slap still shocks him, besides.

Brian expects to be fingered slow and devastating after his little outburst, but apparently Pat’s interpretation of _make me feel it_ is the bare minimum prep before Pat rolls a condom on himself and slides inside Brian’s body. Brian pants into his forearms, crossed underneath his mouth on the bed. His ass is tilted in the air, Pat’s fingers digging in to the meat of his hips and keeping him there so he can feel every long, thick inch of Pat’s cock. And _holy shit_ does Brian feel it.

Pat fucks in until his hips are flush against Brian’s ass, then grinds slow circles that don’t really do anything for Brian other than light his skin on fire. He rocks back and forth for a bit, lets Brian relish in how good it is to be full of Pat’s cock, before Pat wrenches back then snaps his hips, hard. Brian wails, tries to muffle it into his forearm when Pat does it again, but he’s so loud, the noise breaking off into a stuttered gasp that he couldn’t control even if he tried. He just—he just—

He just takes it, is the thing. He doesn’t have the leverage, really, to do anything _to_ Pat or _for_ Pat to help him, can only sway his hips with the movement of Pat’s thrusts. It’s—well, if he had the wherewithal to draw on his English degree, he could probably come up with a better word to describe how every nerve ending in his body is fizzing like a shaken soda can. How Pat, when he pulls out, pauses for the slightest millisecond with the head of his cock inside, and Brian can’t focus on anything but how satisfying it feels for his hole to clench around Pat, draw Pat back in even before Pat’s hips do the rest of the work.

But all Brian can think is: _good_. It’s so fucking good.

“ _God_ , you feel amazing on my cock,” Pat says. He moves one hand from Brian’s hip and slides it hard and heavy up Brian’s spine, until the base of Pat’s palm rests between his shoulder blades, pushes him down, keeps him rooted to the bed. “Such a perfect fuck. Letting me do what I want with you.”

“A- anything,” Brian gasps. “Whatever you want.”

Brian feels outside himself, a little—floating, not like sub space, but somewhere close—pleasure holding his body together instead of skin and bones. His eyes are screwed shut but he can imagine how the two of them look, the picture they make on the bed: Pat, barely breaking a sweat though Brian is falling apart and gasping and whining like a starving thing, finding the right angle, the right hip movement, to fill Brian so completely that he can only in retrospect realize how empty he was before. The sheets rumpled and twisted under Brian’s slick mouth and sweat-damp knees, the comforter flung off, the lamp casting shadows on Pat’s stupidly good chin and shoulders and forehead. It’s not art, all things considered, but it feels like a fucking masterpiece.

Pat groans and snaps his hips at a bruising pace. “Don’t tell me that, baby boy. Givin’ me ideas.”

“Love— _ah!_ —love your ideas.”

The hand on Brian’s shoulder blade slides even higher, into Brian’s hair again. Pat drapes himself so far over Brian’s back that he starts to slip out a little and Brian tries to scramble to keep him inside. But then Pat’s sitting up straight and he’s got Brian’s hair in an incredible grip and—yes yes _yesfuckyes_ —he pulls until Brian’s torso is completely off the bed, his arms dangling at his sides. Not for too long, though, because Pat moves his other hand and grabs Brian’s wrists in his fucking criminally long fingers, and Brian feels like he blinks for one second and in that breadth of time Pat gets Brian absolutely at his mercy. One hand yanking his neck back by the hair and the other hand pinning Brian’s wrists at the small of his back. Brian can’t do anything but writhe on Pat’s dick, his hamstrings burning, but it’s so so so worth it when Pat changes the angle and absolutely, wonderfully, perfectly slides the head of his cock against Brian’s prostate.

“ _Daa-addy_.”

“I got you, baby,” Pat says. He tugs on Brian’s hair again, presses a gentle kiss at the base of Brian’s neck. It’s a wild contrast from how hard he’s fucking into Brian now—and oh, Brian is going to be so sore tomorrow, but he can’t even care right now when his dick is dripping so much he feels soaked with it.

“Do you want to come?” Pat asks.

“Yes," Brian hisses, all strung together and sibilant. "Yesyes _yes_ , please.” Brian tries to turn his head, to bend his neck enough to kiss Pat’s mouth or his chin or even just look at him, god. “Please let me come.”

Pat swears and lets go of Brian’s wrists, but bats his hands out of the way so he can fist Brian’s cock. “How do you do that so fucking well,” Pat asks rhetorically. His hips are losing the rhythm, fucking out of tempo like Pat’s barely hanging on but desperate to stick around for the finale. “Say exactly the perfect thing, bend your body the perfect way. I- It’s fucking stunning.”

Brian lolls his head, bucks between Pat’s hand and his cock, which are working asynchronously to take him apart. He still doesn’t have the language to describe how he feels, but it’s fucking bliss to be caught in this limbo, surrounded by Pat’s body and his love and his breath and his smell and everything else about him that Brian loves so much.

“You’re so good for me,” Pat says. “So pliant, so responsive.” He pauses for long enough that anticipation skitters through Brian’s chest. Then Pat yanks Brian’s hair, the hardest he has all night, so that Brian is shouting and wriggling when Pat gets right next to his ear and whispers, hot and absolutely devastating, “Daddy’s perfect little fuck doll.”

Brian would be embarrassed by how hard and fast he comes at those words, as if they were Words of Power or a command from up above, except he’s too busy coming his fucking brains out, his body twitching against Pat’s hold—and is he yelling? He’s definitely yelling, shit he owes Jonah so many cookies, but oh my _God_ how is he supposed to be quiet when he’s coming the hardest he ever has in his whole _life_.

He barely catches that Pat comes, too, thrusting a couple more times before stilling, letting go of Brian’s hair, moving both hands to his hips again. A full circle moment, Brian thinks deliriously with the one brain cell he has left.

Pat’s quiet, like he gets sometimes after they play like this, when it’s real heavy and Pat needs to come back from a far-away headspace as much as Brian does. He places so many feather-soft kisses down Brian’s spine, until Pat is bent practically in half with the effort of it. But then the condom starts to slip and Pat is truly perfect because he grabs the base and eases out slowly, kisskiss _kissing_ the whole way so Brian’s distracted by ticklish pleasure as Pat pulls out and ties the condom.

Pat hops off the bed to deal with it then comes back, taking probably fifteen seconds all told, but it feels like thirty minutes since Brian had flopped gracelessly onto his side, hissed, and scooted out of the wet spot. He makes grabby hands at Pat, who follows him down and tucks his too-boney and perfect chin into the dip between Brian’s neck and shoulder.

“Mm, yes. Cuddles.” Brian yawns and snuggles back into Pat’s body. Pat makes a contented noise of his own. Time warps again, both too-slow and too-fast, and either two weeks or twenty seconds pass before Pat starts breathing heavy and deep through his nose.

“No, nonono Patrick, we can’t fall asleep,” Brian says, stern. His voice is muffled by his mouth smushed into the pillow. Pat grips him tighter and grunts. “Don’t—wet spot, and gotta brush m’ teeth.”

Pat sighs and releases him. “You want the bathroom first?”

“ _God_ I love you,” Brian says emphatically, and he twists his upper half to lay a smacking kiss on Pat’s shoulder before he squirms out of the bed and heads to the bathroom. And okay, maybe when it’s Pat’s turn in the bathroom and Brian’s supposed to be changing the sheets, maybe he just removes the fitted sheet and lays the old flat sheet on the bare mattress, grabs a blanket from his closet. It be like that, sometimes. 

\---

Brian goes to work the next day with a hitch in his step that makes his morning commute even less bearable—and that makes Simone, and blessedly no one else, cackle when he sits at his desk. Pat walks in fifteen minutes later, looking entirely unflappable and _not_ like he had incredible sex last night. He’s finishing the last of his coffee from the shop where they’d grabbed a light breakfast, looking entirely too normal as he boots up his computer. Brian hates him.

The first thing Brian sees when he opens his email is a series of video files from Clayton, who’d been at work for several hours already and who had already been more productive than Brian will probably be all day. Attached are the shots from both cameras yesterday, labeled correctly according to Polygon’s file management protocols and everything. The email reads, _check out 4:03:56_ , followed by a gif of Darth Vader force choking Admiral Motti.

Brian loads Premiere—and waits far too long for an update to install, _god_ he hates Adobe—and pops in the file, clicks over to that timestamp.

It’s Brian and Adam and the fucking egg rice, and Brian knows what’s about to happen but it’s still so shocking to hear how loud Pat is when he says _Ohh, daddy._ If Brian wanted to, say, include that clip in the final cut of this Unraveled, he wouldn’t really have to play with the volume levels that much. Barely at all, in fact.

Brian glances at Pat, who’s unsuspecting, and sliding in his headphones, and probably sending a message on Slack about how the video team should _circle up_ later to talk about the next few days.

Brian smirks at his screen and makes a new clip. _Payback’s a bitch, baby boy_

**Author's Note:**

> I have a fandom twitter now, because apparently that's what people are doing these days! Feel free to yell at me @thatstrigbaybee. Mwah~


End file.
